“There you are all right; quite correct, my boy. But there are many points I should have wished otherwise in the conduct of the affair hitherto.”
Conceiving that he was displeased at my petulance and boldness, I was about to commence a kind of defence, when he added,—
“Because, you see,” said he, assuming an oracular tone of voice, “throwing a wine-glass, with or without wine, in a man’s face is merely, as you may observe, a mark of denial and displeasure at some observation he may have made,—not in any wise intended to injure him, further than in the wound to his honor at being so insulted, for which, of course, he must subsequently call you out. Whereas, Charley, in the present case, the view I take is different; the expression of Mr. Bodkin, as regards your uncle, was insulting to a degree,—gratuitously offensive,—and warranting a blow. Therefore, my boy, you should, under such circumstances, have preferred aiming at him with a decanter: a cut-glass decanter, well aimed and low, I have seen do effective service. However, as you remark it was your first thing of the kind, I am pleased with you—very much pleased with you. Now, then, for the next step.” So saying, he arose from his bed, and striking a light with a tinder-box, proceeded to dress himself as leisurely as if for a dinner party, talking all the while.
“I will just take Godfrey’s tax-cart and the roan mare on to Meelish, put them up at the little inn,—it is not above a mile from Bodkin’s; and I’ll go over and settle the thing for you. You must stay quiet till I come back, and not leave the house on any account. I’ve got a case of old broad barrels there that will answer you beautifully; if you were anything of a shot, I’d give you my own cross handles, but they’d only spoil your shooting.”
“I can hit a wine-glass in the stem at fifteen paces,” said I, rather nettled at the disparaging tone in which he spoke of my performance.
“I don’t care sixpence for that; the wine-glass had no pistol in his hand. Take the old German, then; see now, hold your pistol thus,—no finger on the guard there, these two on the trigger. They are not hair-triggers; drop the muzzle a bit; bend your elbow a trifle more; sight your man outside your arm,—outside, mind,—and take him in the hip, and if anywhere higher, no matter.”
By this time the count had completed his toilet, and taking the small mahogany box which contained his peace-makers under his arm, led the way towards the stables. When we reached the yard, the only person stirring there was a kind of half-witted boy, who, being about the house, was employed to run of messages from the servants, walk a stranger’s horse, or to do any of the many petty services that regular domestics contrive always to devolve upon some adopted subordinate. He was seated upon a stone step formerly used for mounting, and though the day was scarcely breaking, and the weather severe and piercing, the poor fellow was singing an Irish song, in a low monotonous tone, as he chafed a curb chain between his hands with some sand. As we came near he started up, and as he pulled off his cap to salute us, gave a sharp and piercing glance at the count, then at me, then once more upon my companion, from whom his eyes were turned to the brass-bound box beneath his arm,—when, as if seized with a sudden impulse, he started on his feet, and set off towards the house with the speed of a greyhound, not, however, before Considine’s practised eye had anticipated his plan; for throwing down the pistol-case, he dashed after him, and in an instant had seized him by the collar.
“It won’t do, Patsey,” said the count; “you can’t double on me.”
“Oh, Count, darlin’, Mister Considine avick, don’t do it, don’t now,” said the poor fellow, falling on his knees, and blubbering like an infant.
“Hold your tongue, you villain, or I’ll cut it out of your head,” said Considine.